Makinti, Me

I went to see you, eager to sit amongst your hair string tassels swaying pink and soft, orange waving at me from bones waiting to spread into hips.

I hoped you’d remember, I readied for the warmth glowing from your ochre powered glow, igniting knowledge in danced steps, flicking up the dust.

I wished so I quickened, the fancy your grow-up story could jump bodies and play DNA into my melodic storyline, pushing me on.  

I arrived where I knew you, but a foreign angular block spread across your home. Paddock. Fence. You had been removed. 

Stomach fell through heels and messed gadi’s sandy soil. 

Too well do we know 

of this-relocation. Loss,

Too low blow.

I strained to hear the singing of your yellow speckled fawn. I hear only white. The click of gentleman’s heel on squeaking wooden floor. The deck of a ship. The designer squelching of opening night danced on polished concrete.

Those images are taken, perhaps brushed away by your DNA 

Single file traversing hot sand red. Warmth returns. You have only travelled like the great women of your creation to another place on the great paint songline. 

I went to see you but both of us are moving. Like Kungka Kutjarra – hair string, possum fur sway. Two women travelling. Dreaming.